Acalanto
by greyrondo
Summary: One-shot. Kuja's reflections upon his dreams for Terra as he gazes at it from the Invincible.


One-shot! Kuja stares at the landscape of Terra as he sees it for the first time in years. As he does, the Terran lullaby that haunted his childhood comes back to him, and the love for life that gave birth to his hate for the blue world.

Disclaimer: I'm not so hurt by the fact that I don't own FFIX, but as much as I hate to admit it, I don't own Kuja.

Acalanto (Lullaby)

Kuja sighed bitterly. It was admittedly unfortunate to be home. Protected by the _Invincible's _heavy glass that separated his thin frame from Terra's sterile air, he already felt the diseased chill running itself slowly over his skin. He crossed his arms over his bare chest, feeling a sensation not unlike the slickness of poisonous magic seep into his veins, and ever so slowly into his heart where it threatened to turn the delicate key that delegated beat and breath.

Of course, this was all only the product of his mind. But the simple thought that he would soon be taking in Terran air was enough to induce those psychosomatic fears.

"Peace is but a shadow of death," he sang to himself, the first incantation his lips summoned when he reached impulsively for a distraction. "Destined to forget its painful past…"

How ever so appropriate, he smiled ruefully. There was no more perfectly ironic melody to come to him than that cursed lullaby.

"Though we hope for promising years. After shedding a thousand tears, yesterday's sorrow constantly nears. And while the moon still shines blue…"

At that, he laughed. It began a quiet and self-effacing chuckle before it echoed and resounded into heady near-hysterics. Blue. It was the color of the cold light that Terra inflicted upon his every motion, the color of life's parody that played out its masquerade rooted into Terra's unyielding earth. It was, regrettably, the color that shared all these associations with the irises that stared back at him in the mirror.

"By dawn, 'twill turn to scarlet hue," his voice cadenced. He could remember no more, and thankfully so. How could a child be raised lovingly with that song as his lullaby?

Kuja deigned to allow his gaze to fall to the Terra below, and took pleasure in the imagining of it in a very different appearance than the reality that clashed with his ideals.

The promise of razing it himself put him somewhat at ease.

It had been easy to enjoy destroying Burmecia. The rain cast a grey shadow over what would have been vibrant mountainous terrain, leaving a dank and muddy stench instead of the fresh clarity of snow, the raw and sensuous scent of rock and sunburned grasses, the unpretentious perfume of wildflowers.

And with the lifeless stone, the curls carved into the slippery tile to mock the spontaneity of organic life—nearly encroaching upon Terra's charade—he had very much relished seeing it crumble.

It had been harder, much harder to set himself to his decided task, when the targets resembled so much more the planet they called home. The world he wanted more than anything to call his own.

"Ah, Terra," he sang out, in what might have been interpreted as gleeful. "Fear not; when I destroy you, I will rebuild you in the image of a world whose beauties you have never known."

And while he was daydreaming, he continued. "There will be sandstone and granite and quartz and all else, and trees. Real trees, not your crystalline structures simply aching to shatter. An infinite variety; some will stand tall and strong and spread their limbs so that their leaves may bask in the sun I will shine upon your neglected and infertile earth. Others will dance in sun-soaked wind that you would not even recognize. The water will be able to support life, and there will be day and night, and seasons."

He closed his eyes and imagined waking up and seeing his favorite colors: leafy greens so plush they called for his hands to touch them, and all dilutions of comforting hues to remind him of the warmth of a natural sun. Even gold.

And at the thought of gold, he frowned. He had never been able to conceive of the reason that Zidane had been given the warm hues of sunlight, while he was confined to the hard-edged glare of the bite of moonlight. His skin, pale as only a child of the moon's could be; his hair, glittering like rare but lifeless jewels in silver and palest blue.

That was why he wore the violet and white, of course: to remind him every moment of his individual purpose. The gold armor closest to his heart repeated with every heartbeat an image of the living and beautiful world he cherished even as he laid waste to it. Gaia.

While Terra was blue, Gaia was a brimming red. Kuja did not even know there was such a color until he saw it reflected in the Observatory. But that faded red was nothing to the glorious color he encountered on the planet itself—the scarlet of dance, the floral fuchsia of terraced gardens, the deep crimson of…

A spasm through his body forced him to his knees even as it demanded a choking gasp; Kuja coughed wincingly into his palm, his back curved into a crescent. The red he had become most familiar with was the deep crimson of his own blood.

As the red blossom registered in his suddenly lightheaded thoughts, he again silently cursed Terra. He had been strong once: how could he truly be an Angel of Death if he solely depended on magic?

But Terra had failed him. It was a Gaian disease of some sort, he supposed, some sort of ailment that Terra had not provided immunity for. Over the years, he had searched in vain for a cure, only to find knowledge of any such disease wanting. And the silent disease had only worsened. It had devoured his toned muscles until only the barest remained, and sapped at his energy until his eyelids were more often than not sultry with the toxic lull of sleep.

So much to fight against, when there was no one to stand by his side. There had simply been no time. He had taken to Gaia itself as a lover—who was he to know how love between two individuals worked, when he dealt in death. How could he guess, when the most intimate moments of his life had been ironic utterances of that fatal lullaby? He toyed with the words of romance, entertained, but there was truly nothing he knew.

Would a lover have been as warm as Gaia's hues? Would nursing a lover's supple waist be as euphoric as the caress of a morning breeze on his cheek?

He had heard that all of his solitary pleasures—the sun, the sky—paled in comparison. But he needed not be alone forever: when he had formed Terra in the very brimming image of life and nature, when he was able to cast aside the lullaby and his name Angel of Death, he would find this life that bloomed only for him, if there truly was another soul waiting for him. After all, he certainly had more than enough time.


End file.
